


Untitled

by galoots



Series: Loots Duck Universe (LDU) [7]
Category: Disney Duck Universe, Disney Ducks (Comics), DuckTales (Cartoon 2017), The Three Caballeros (1944)
Genre: Bi Scrooge, Everyone has anxiety, Fluff, I love embarrassing Donald, Insecurity, M/M, Multi, Questioning sexual identity, Scrooge giving Donald awkward pep talks about how much he loves him, smooches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2019-11-18 07:03:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18115715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galoots/pseuds/galoots
Summary: (I'll give this work a title when I can think of a suitable one.)Donald is uncertain about who he is, what he wants, and where he's heading. Maybe Jose and Panchito can help him find his way. Scrooge will be there to tease Donald every step of the way.





	1. Untitled Opening

**Author's Note:**

> The opening and ending quotes are from Anne Carson's Eros the Bittersweet. Ms. Carson, I am so so so sorry I used your wonderful writing for my shitty fanfic about gay birds.

            “Wings… are the mechanism by which Eros swoops upon the unsuspecting lover to wrest control of his person and personality. Wings are an instrument of damage and a symbol of irresistible power. When you fall in love, change sweeps through you on wings and you cannot help but lose your grip on that cherished entity, your self” (Carson 155-6).

            In traditional poetry, it is the lover and the beloved, the reader and the writer. The beloved unattainable, aloof, because it’s their absence, not their presence where Eros arises. The writer can only pen empty signifiers that the reader interprets yet never reaches that which is signified. That gap between the lover and the beloved, the word and its meaning, is a space of charged nothingness. You reach out, but you cannot grasp what it is that you want. It is always in-between. For reaching it would be like clutching a chunk of melting ice, the heat of your hand only speeds the process. Love drives you mad; it makes you lose sense of your self.

            Donald felt lost. He was adrift stormy seas with no compass to guide him. The maps he drew by daylight would shift at night, so that by morning’s dawn the terrain he’d charted was untenable from his surroundings. His uncle told him it wasn’t uncommon, to feel uncertain about yourself, that your twenties were for finding who it is you were meant to be. Still, Scrooge had spent his young adulthood staking his claim amongst other fortune-seekers. He was not Donald—a twenty-one-year-old college student with a penchant for writing poetry and introspection.

            “Donaldo stared out the window, his eyes wandering, his gaze unfocused—” Jose leaned against the door frame to their living room, arms crossed.

            Panchito joined José by his side, “—there could only be one thing on Donaldo’s mind: the señor or señorita that had caught his heart’s fancy.”

            “For Christ sake.” Donald quit his navel-gazing to aim the full force of his glare at his annoying friends. “I told you guys to stop narrating everything I do.”

            His mischievous friends ignored him. José nudged Panchito lightly, “Poor Donal’. A hopeless romantic. Can’t you see the misery that’s etched into his visage, Panch?”

            “I can, amigo. Our Donal’ truly has the soul of a poet.”

            With a huff, Donald dived face-first onto the cushions of the couch. He didn’t want the two of them to see his beet-red face. They chuckled at his theatrics. The bastards. They’re lucky I love them, or I’d whale the tar out of them. Wait, love? His train of thought halted violently when an exuberant Panchito and a scheming José draped themselves over Donald’s prostrate figure.

            “Get offa me, you louts!”

            Smiling, José crossed his legs. “Sweet, sweet Donal’. What troubles you, my friend? What torturous secret has torn you so asunder?” He elegantly placed his hand, palm out, to his forehead, as if he were about to faint.

            Panchito, on the other hand, was much more jocular. “Sí, Donal’! You can tell us. There are no secrets between the Three Cabarellos!” Oh yeah? Since when was that a part of their song? Donald would remember writing a lyric like that.

            “Oh, Panchito! Perhaps our brooding artists is brainstorming lyrics for new songs?”

            Face still buried in the cushion, Donald shook his head. The three of them worked so well as a cohesive unit, as friends, as bandmates, they were in perfect harmony. Who was he to disrupt that? Say he was mistaken about his own feelings. Perhaps he mistook platonic companionship for something… more. A misstep could effectively alter the trajectory of their comfortable camaraderie forever. Did he even like boys? What would that make him? Bi? Was Donald Duck the kind of person who could confidently wield his sexual identity like an emblem as Panch and Zé did? He tried to imagine introducing Uncle Scrooge to the two of them, linked arm-in-arm. _Hey Unkie-Dunkie, these are my boyfriends. Yes, you heard right. Boy, as in male, and Friends, as in plural._ No, he’d die of embarrassment. He knew his uncle would always love and support him—he’d made that _abundantly_ clear. Donald tried, and failed, to suppress the wave of abject embarrassment that accompanied the memory of Scrooge’s emphatic speech.

            _Donald, I want you to know that I love you. Nothing can ever change that. And I know you’re going through puberty which is very sensitive and emotional period for a youngster… er, which is to say, you may feel certain urges towards others. Maybe female, maybe male—_ here Scrooge had placed his hand on Donald’s knee as Donald fervently wished that God would strike him down where he sat— _either way I love you. And I know you’ll be cautious and safe if you, uh, choose to act on those urges—_ That’s where Donald had cut him off, face redder than it had ever been, as he hopelessly testified to his uncle that he was _not_ in any way dating his friend Mickey. Scrooge had patted him on the back— _no need to feel embarrassed, my boy, Mickey’s a fine young lad. Why I’ve had the occasional fling or two with a handsome young prospector back in my day—_

            After that Donald had astral projected out of his body to mitigate the psychic damage Scrooge was inflicting upon him. No, the problem was not a lack of support. Scrooge would give him that shit-eating grin he wore whenever he was proven right. And the teasing, my God! He wouldn’t survive his uncle’s razzing. He’d want to show Zé and Panch… _that_ baby picture. He shuddered to think of it. Donald would have to enter the witness protection program, leave town, change his name. Then where would he be? Certainly no worse off than before in terms of knowing himself. It might be kind of nice to start someone new, tabula rasa and all that jazz… Ok, maybe he was putting the horse before the cart. He wasn’t actually even dating his friends yet. The point was he was scared. And Zé and Panch were so confident. And cool. And sexy. Objectively, that is. Sexy in a totally straight way that didn’t imply anything about Donald or his sexuality.

            By this point, he knew he’d been quiet for far too long. Say something, dumbass! He couldn’t. He was terrified that his voice would crack with the nervous energy that such close physical contact with Zé and Panch bred. He’d bolt from the room, but the two had him pinned. No retreat.

            “Donal’? Did you pass out from lack of air?” Uh oh, Panchito had given his question the inflection of a joke, but a clear edge of worry had worked its way into his voice.

            “It’s nothing!”

            Ze pet his head motherly. “Having a Donal’ moment?”

            “Maybe,” he whined in response.

            Panchito started to pet Donald’s lower back. “There, there.” His hand may have been dangerously close to Donald’s ass, but it was definitely accidental and _not_ on purpose. Soothing was José’s thing, however, Panchito was here to add some heat to the fire. He threw himself forward and put Donald in a headlock. “Now, tell us what’s wrong!”

            “No!”

            “C’mon.”

            “No way in hell.”

            “Tell us.”

            “Never.”

            At this point, Zé had joined Panchito’s effort to pester Donald into telling them what was wrong. The two chanted in unison, _tell us, tell us, tell us._ José assaulted Donald with a barrage of pokes. Their chant grew louder and louder until—

            “I THINK I LIKE BOYS AND I THINK I HAVE A CRUSH ON YOU TWO.”

            The room fell silent. A beat. Then two.

            Zé cackled. “Is that it?!” He was grinning wildly. Panchito had leapt off the couch crowing loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear. They’d surely get another noise complaint. Again. For the fourth time.

            “I knew it! I knew it! He likes us!” If he had pistols he’d be shooting them in the air indiscriminately. He hopped excitedly from foot to foot dancing a frenetic jig around the room. “Donal’, we like you too!”

            José brushed the mussed feathers that obscured Donald’s eyes to the side. “Its true. We do. Besides, Pato, I, too, have a terrible secret I’ve been hiding as well… I’m…” José choked dramatically, “GAY.”

            Glaring at him, Donald bore angry holes into José’s perfectly poised face of faux despair. “You literally say that all the time! You interrupted our Psych professor’s lecture last Monday to announce it to the whole class!”

            “So now you know the terrible secret I’ve been harboring in my heart.” Zé clenched his fist. “And… scene. Seriously though, why didn’t you talk to us about this?”

            “Si! You can’t spell Panchito with P-A-N after all!”

            Donald faceplanted back to the safety of the couch’s embrace. These cushions would never betray him. “Because I’m embarrassed! And embarrassing! I’m so confused! You can’t like two people! You can’t _date_ two people!”

            “Yes, you can.” José smiled patiently.

            “No, you can’t!”

            “Why not?”

            “Because—Because… it’s not what people _do,_ Zé.”

            Panchito seized Donald by his cheeks and dragged his face towards his. “They do! And we can! Can we skip to the part where we passionately kiss now?”

            Zé lay a gentle hand on their excited friend’s chest. “Slow down, Panchito. I think he’s still reeling.”

            He was. His head was swimming and he felt like he might pass out. Could it really be that easy?

            “Pato, look at me.” Donald complied with Zé’s command. “It’s perfectly fine if you’re still uncertain about who you are and what you want. It can always change in the future. People aren’t static, and neither are their identities, sexual or otherwise. I think I speak for both of us when I say we’re willing to take this as slow as you’d like. _If_ you’d like, that is.”

            Panchito nodded enthusiastically. “I can even wait another few minutes for my smooch if need be.”

            Blushing, Donald blinked slowly. He felt as if he were in a dream. The worries and anxieties that had been tormenting him for months on end started to still for the first time. He was happy and nervous, afraid and soothed, tortured with the pain of love and the delight of being loved. The sensation of soaring hadn’t left him yet. Maybe it never would. One could hope, right?

            “Can I have my smooch now?” Panchito asked sweetly.

            Donald swore he was going to deck the over-eager rooster at this rate. “Maybe… maybe one smooch. A small one. On the cheek.”

            “¡Bendito sea Dios!”

 Donald braced for impact but felt only the light brush of Panchito's beak upon his feathery cheek. It was surprisingly gentler than Donald had thought Panchito was possible of. It was nice. It was really nice. He looked at José who was smiling softly back at him. “Well, Pato?”

He still felt uncertain. He still felt scared. But he also felt like a slight breeze had come his way to help guide his way back home. “Ok, I wanna do this with you two.”

            “When you fall in love you feel all sorts of sensations inside you, painful and pleasant at once: it is your wings sprouting. It is the beginning of what you mean to be” (Carson 157).

 


	2. Diner Dates and Dinner Plates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donald, Panchito, and José go on their first date. There are a few bumps.

_Tmp-tmp-tmp._ Donald nervously drummed his fingers on the lacquered tabletop of the kitschy 50’s styled diner they were in. He was avoiding Panchito and Zé’s eyes the best he could. It was much better to study the memorabilia and tchotchkes that adorned the walls. If he stared long enough maybe he’d crack the latent meaning of each ancient hieroglyphs. Ones that, if he could only understand, would spill all the secrets of human interaction. Finally, Donald would be everything he wanted to be: suave, adroit, composed. Instead he was his normal self: anxious, sweaty, awkward.

             He was on his first date with Zé and Panchito. José, despite Donald’s protestations, had insisted on it, but Donald couldn’t understand _why_ it was so important to him. For days, José had pestered him to agree to a proper first date, and, each time, Donald had replied with his own rationale. _We hang out all the time. It won’t be any different to do it somewhere else. Why can’t we do what we always do? Eat pizza, get drunk, and trash bad movies?_ No. Things were never easy with Panch and Zé. So here they were, Panchito and Ze sitting opposite Donald in a booth with its faux-leather vinyl sticking to his sweaty feathers. He glanced up at the two of them; Panchito was stacking coffee creamers as high as he could, and José was scrolling through Instagram. Oh God, they were clearly bored. He had to make conversation fast, or they’d realize what a loser he is and decide this was a mistake. That this was _all_ a mistake. The spell from that eventful day would finally break, and they would realize dating Donald was a bad idea from the get-go. He was going to mess this up. Then Panchito and José would realize they were dating a loser—a boring, _sweaty_ loser. Making things official also made them complicated, and Donald was terrified of fucking things up like he always did.

              He heard Zé sigh, and his anxiety shot through the roof. Fuck, make words with your mouth hole. Do it now. “So, uh…” Great start, asshole. “How… how ‘bout them sports?”

              “Which ones?” Panchito smiled but didn’t take his eyes off his towering monstrosity.

              “Uh, all of them?” What was he saying? He didn’t know jack shit about sports. Panch and Zé _knew_ he knew nothing about sports. He was blowing this. Soon he’d be drowning in his own sweat with no one to throw him a life preserver.

              Luckily, his self-sabotaging ass was saved by the waitress who approached their table. “Hiya, darlin’s. Ready to order?”

              By her choice of words, Donald expected their waitress to be the kind you’d see in a diner. A kindly older woman wearing that blue waitress uniform with the pointed collar, apron layered over it. The sort of woman who called you “sweetheart” or “dumpling.” He looked up at her and—fuck. She was cute. He was not expecting that. He gaped at the tall dognose woman with the many ear piercings towering above him. “H-hey,” he stuttered.

              For a brief moment, Panchito snapped his eyes away from his tower to deliver his order. “Can I get a frittata? And more creamers for my tower.”

              “Sure thing,” she jotted his order down and turned her gaze towards José, “and you?”

              “I’ll have the cheeseburger. And a coke.” José eyed a flushed Donald who had not taken his eyes away from their waitress.

              “Of course,” she turned towards Donald and flashed him a smile, “and what can I get for you?” Donald gazed at her. Why did she have to be so pretty? He didn’t factor in a pretty waitress in the mental pre-enactments of this date and it was throwing him off course. Did she know they were on a date? No, how could she possibly? Unless people could feel the bi panic radiating from the core of his being? They probably could.

              “Sir, can I get you—”

              “Soup!” Donald blurted out.

              “Oh! Sure. Which kind? We have chicken noodle, tomato, minestrone—”

              “Any kind!”

              “Oh, um, well I sort of need you to choose…” She looked at him uncertainly, and Donald felt like she was peering into his skull.

              “Just, uh, surprise me, ok toots?” He grinned nervously at her. Please. Just roll with it. He prayed to God she found that charming and not creepy.

              She chuckled, “Well, alright. I guess I can bend the rules a bit. I’ll be right back with your order, cutie.”

              Did he hear that right? Cutie? I am more sweat than man at this current juncture, lady.

Panchito’s tower fell over. “Drat. Can I get a chocolate milkshake too? Three straws please.” The waitress nodded and flashed a smile at Donald before walking away.

              Ze had resumed his absent-minded scroll through his phone, but with an intensity he didn’t have before. “Well. Someone likes you.”

              “Of course, she does! He’s adorable.” Panchito answered before Donald could even respond.

              I am?

              “You are!” Panchito affirmed. Fuck, he didn’t realize he said that out loud. He blushed and hid his face in his palm. “You are incredibly handsome, Donal’. Lucky us. We get to date you. Can you pass me that creamer?” With his free hand, Donald scooted the creamer near him over to Panchito. Did Panchito say three straws? Why would he need three straws? Unless…

              Zé tucked his phone away. “Donal’ will you hold something for me?”

              “Uh, sure.” Donald offered his hand to Zé who took the opportunity to interlace their fingers and hold his hand.

              “Thanks, babe.”

              That sneak! Donald had been bamboozled!

              “No fair. I want to hold his hand too!” Panchito cried.

              “That’s why God gave us two hands, Panchito.” Ze’s voice communicated his usual levity, but he looked vaguely pissed off.

              Knocking over his newly rebuilt tower to reach across the table, Panchito grabbed Donald’s other hand. Before Donald could react, the waitress returned with their orders. “Ok, one frittata, a chocolate milkshake with three straws, and, uh, a basket full of creamers?” She placed the items in front of Panchito who, with his free hand, took the straws, tore off their paper packaging with his teeth, then proceeded to drink his milkshake with all three straws at once.

              “We got a cheeseburger and a coke.” Ze straightened the plate she placed down and put his napkin on his lap with surprising grace considering it was all done one-handed. “And one surprise soup.” She plunked the bowl in between Donald’s captive arms, eyes lingering on his clasped hands. “It’s borscht. Enjoy.”

“That’s, uh, an interesting choice. You’re cultured, huh?” He glanced at the name tag pinned to her lapel. “Thanks, Janice.”

“My pleasure.” She set down one extra plate with a chocolate muffin on it. “I got you a little something from the bakery. On the house. It’s always good to have something sweet to round off a meal.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Small talk was never Donald’s strong suit, but he welcomed it as a brief respite from the weird vibe that now hung in the air between him and his friends.

“Let me know if you need help with anything else.” With that she walked off.

              Donald stared into the purple gloop in his bowl. It looked thick. And cold. “What the hell is borscht?”

              “Who cares.” Ze answered noncommittally.

              “Beats me!” Chirped Panchito with a mouthful of food.

              “Well, I need my hands to eat this purple junk so…” Neither of them let go. “Uh… guys?” They ignored him. Those rats. “How’s a guy s’posed to eat mystery soup without his hands?”

              Ze stared out the window. Panchito glanced at Ze, then plucked a straw from his milkshake and plopped it in Donald’s bowl. “There. You can drink it!”

              “That’s gross, Panch.” Donald grimaced at the leftover chocolate shake mixed into the purple concoction. Maybe the girl didn’t actually think he was cute. Maybe she was just trying to kill him.

              Ze’s gaze snapped from the window with a glimmer in his eyes. “Well, I could feed you. If you behave.”

              “What?”

              “Pato, say ah.”

              Donald obediently adhered to Ze’s command, “Ah..” Ze fed him a French fry. “There. Now you won’t starve. No hands required.” There was a smug look on Ze’s face. Donald almost choked on the fry in his mouth. He really needed to stop blindly following Ze’s commands all the time. Except Ze gave him that look, the one that made his stomach do somersaults. So, he chewed and swallowed. These two would be the death of him. Yet, this didn’t feel like their normal, easy dynamic. Donald didn’t like it. Usually, they’d be trading jokes and jabs back and forth. Ze would talk about his recent auditions, Panchito would tell them about the gigs he booked, and Donald would roll his eyes at his friends’ antics. But this felt weirdly… tense? Ze looked unhappy. Panchito was smiling nervously.

              Before he could dive into what exactly was going on, Zé had hailed their waitress back to the table.

She returned to their booth and asked, “How’s everything tasting?”

              Zé answered even though the girl had been looking at Donald. “Fine, my date here doesn’t like his soup, however.”

              “Yeah?” Frowning a little, she shifted her weight from one foot to another.

              “No! It’s totally fine. You picked a great soup." Donald felt something touch his foot under his table and let out a small yelp of surprise. Ze had started to play footsie with him under the table. Donald shot him a look, but Ze’s face betrayed none of its usual mischievous folly. He wasn’t even looking at Donald, but up at the girl.

              Janice cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Is something wrong, darling?”

              “We’re fine. Thank you.” Ze said dismissively. Ze tracked the waitress eyes linger briefly on the chest feathers that stuck out of Donald’s button up. Donald gulped and flushed. Ze’s foot shenanigans continued. She retreated to check on other tables.

              “Quit it!” Donald hissed.

              “Just having some fun, Pato.” Ze winked at him.

              Panchito sighed. “He’s jealous that waitress is hitting on you.”

              Ze squawked, “No, I’m not!”

              “You are. You’ve been giving the poor girl the stink-eye each time she passes our table.” Panchito turned his gaze towards Donald. “Donal’, don’t you think you might have something to say to José?”

              Donald got starry-eyed for a second. “Woah. Do you think a cute gal like that is into _me_? Maybe I can get her number…”

              José jerked his hand from Donald’s grip. The sudden movement startled Donald out of his self-absorbed reverie. José had fallen silent.

              Panchito lightly kicked Donald’s shin under the table and cocked his head in José’s direction.

              _What?,_ mouthed Donald. Panchito shook his head slowly, Donald was adorable, but he was also the densest person he’d ever known. _Say something,_ he mouthed back. Oh! Donald realized what Panchito was getting at.

              “Um, just kidding, Zé. I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

              José said nothing and looked timidly down at the table. Panchito narrowed his eyes at Donald. “I think what Donal’ _means_ to say is that he’s sorry, Zé.”

              “I am?”

              With exasperation, Panchito pressed his hand against his forehead. “Oh my God, Donald. I love you, but you are an idiot. I give up. You’re sailing solo from here on, amigo.” Before departing the table, Panchito gave José a sympathetic rub on the back.

              The two of them sat there silently.

              Donald tapped the table. “So, um.”

              “Did you even want to come on this date at all?” José didn’t lift his eyes from the table.

              “What?”

              “You’ve been sitting there the whole time not saying anything, barely looking at us, flirting with the waitress—”

              “I wasn’t—”

              “You were!” José responded curtly then glanced down at his half-eaten plate. “If we… forced you into this—if you don’t want to date us—date _me—”_

              “If you rather we leave you here with that waitress—”

              “No!” They locked eyes. “I… wanna be here, José. With both of you. With _you_ … I just…” Fuck, he had really screwed the pooch at this one, hadn’t he? He had been so absorbed in his own anxieties he totally ignored Zé’s clear discomfort. Not just in the diner either. Donald had thought they could transition into dating without anything changing, but things _had_ changed. Suddenly, José’s insistence that they shake up their normal routine, his insistence that they all go out on a date, clicked into place. He’d been worried. And it’s not like Donald had really confirmed their relationship, had he? His answer to Ze’s question that afternoon hadn’t been exactly clear-cut, and they way he had acted after, like he could ignore the shift in their relationship, he totally bulldozed over his friend’s feelings. He’d left them in the dust, feeling as uncertain about the state of things as Donald felt. “I’m sorry, José. I’ve been acting like an ass. I’m just… so nervous. I don’t want to mess things up like I always do.” He sighed. “I guess--I guess I thought if I acted like nothing had changed, then I wouldn’t have to face the inevitable fallout when this all came crashing to the ground.” Why did he always sabotage himself like this? “You guys mean so much to me, and—and I guess I was scared that if you got to know me more…” Christ, it was always too little too late with him wasn’t it? “Then you’d really know me. And once you knew me, you wouldn’t like me.”

              José had finally lifted his gaze from the tabletop as Donald self-consciously lowered his.

              “Why didn’t you say anything then?” José fidgeted with the napkin on his lap. “I’ve been worried that… maybe you changed your mind. It feels like you’ve been avoiding me. You say you want to give this a shot, but then you pretend like nothing’s happened. I… need to know where we stand. You have to talk to me.”

 _“_ I thought—maybe,” Donald paused, then continued quieter than before. “Maybe… you’d be disappointed. If I told you that I’m not sure _how_ I feel about things yet.”

              “Well, that’s why people go on dates in the first place, right? To figure out if they work well together?”

Donald swallowed thickly. “Yeah, but what if we _don’t?_ What if we give things an honest go and it _still_ falls apart? What if our friendship can’t survive that?”

José thought for a moment. “Sure, that could happen. But even if things don’t work out between us, we can handle it. _Through fair and stormy weather,_ right?” Donald didn’t have an answer to that. He felt like a heel. “If you don’t want to mess this up then you have to talk to us and tell us how you’re feeling. Don’t bottle it up. I can’t read minds. That’s just an illusion created by my extreme preparedness and my natural charisma.”

              Donald chuckled, “You forgot good looks.”

              “That’s self-evident, of course.”

              Donald reached shyly across the table for José’s hand. José hesitated briefly before clasping his own hand around Donald’s.

“I’m sorry. I’ll try harder from here on out.” Donald paused. He wished he had the right words, but he never did. “No, I won’t just try. I’ll be better. I promise.” José rubbed Donald’s palm with his thumb. “Heh, pretty crummy first date, huh?”

              José shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

              “Seriously?”

              “No. I was lying to make you feel better.” José smiled at him before his face dropped again. “I’m sorry, too. For being huffy. And for pushing you.”

              “Maybe I need a little pushing,” Donald admitted. “But maybe no games of footsies for now, ok?”

              “Oh, you didn’t find that charming?” José snarked.

              Donald smiled bashfully. Zé looked happy again. That was good.

              “We need to leave this waitress a big tip.” José said seriously.

              “Yeah, no kidding. Forget 20%, she’s earned a 300% markup.”

              The two of them laughed; the tension from before had dissipated, and Donald felt like he’d finally heaved a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding in. There were so many uncertainties on the horizon, and he had no clue how things would turn out, but at least they’d be facing things together. Hand in hand.

              Dashing up to their table, Panchito placed his hands on the table and leaned in with a conspiratorial air. “I hope you two have worked things out because we need to leave this instant.”

              José replied. “We did. Don’t you want to finish our date? You never completed your creamer tower.”

              Darting his eyes from side to side, Panchito shook his head. “There’s no time. I accidentally clogged the toilet and now it’s overflowing. We need to pay the check and go. Vámonos, amigos.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was going to write a very fluffy first date chapter, but... well my sweet boys all have their own anxieties and hangups that need to be explored. And Donald is still Donald after all, so he's a bit of a self-absorbed asshole at times.  
> By the way, Panchito was in the bathroom. Flushing random things down the toilet. He had to pass the time somehow right? Speaking of Panchito, the next chapter's all about him and Donald. It's all typed up, but I still need to edit it. I'm in the middle of the end of semester crunch so don't expect it until April. Early May at the latest.


	3. Panchito’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Panchito suffers through a bad day.

 

Ch. 3: Panchito’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

                Panchito was not having a good day. His alarm hadn’t gone off, he had overslept, and missed a class he _really_ couldn’t afford to miss. When he had finally made it to campus, the sky had darkened and rain clouds churned ominously above him. Caught without an umbrella, Panchito was forced to attend the rest of his classes sopping wet. He bought himself a coffee hoping something warm would chase away the chill that had settled in his bones. Before he could take the first sip, a thoughtless freshman with his nose buried in a textbook bumped into him. A full cup of coffee spilled onto his shirt and dribbled onto the floor, and the freshman hurried away without offering anything in the way of an apology. Later, the asshole in his chem class, the one who always asked to copy his work, purposely misgendered him.

               The day couldn’t possibly get worse, he thought, but, as if the fates themselves conspired to prove him wrong, matters continued to magnify. In his rush this morning, he had failed to pack an assignment that was due  that day, and Panchito was forced to take a zero. Worse still, he had forgotten to refill his Adderall and could barely focus on his professor’s lecture about differential calculus. To alleviate his nervous energy, he fiddled with a stim toy while struggling to grasp the day’s lesson. Nosey classmates bothered him about his stim toys, and Panchito fought the urge to rant and rave at the indignity of it all. Finally, Panchito crossed the threshold of his shared apartment and began a dejected climb towards his bedroom.

              The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune had piled on unceasingly until Panchito had been thoroughly beaten down. He missed home. He missed his Mamá. He was tired, wet, stressed, and cold. He thumped onto his bed—wet clothes and all—and started to sob into his pillow. For once, he was glad his amores were not home. They all had their own roles in their tight-knit group, and Panchito was determined to fill his as best he could. He was the fun, happy-go-lucky; the one who could lift the tension from a room or defuse the agitation from a fight. With Donald and José's often explosive tempers, there had to be someone there to mediate, and Panchito was always there to guide them to reason. He had all the practice in the world because it was the same tightrope he’d tread in the tumultuous years of his parent’s divorce. With a joke, with a song, always ready to play the clown, Panchito had kept the balance between the chaotic agents of his formative years. It was something he was good at. And Panchito, always keenly attuned to the emotions of others, was happy to fill that role. But sometimes, even for him, it got to be too much. In those rare moments, Panchito would break.

              It hadn’t just been the terrible day he had either; it was the culmination of several events that Panchito had done his best to dam up. The stress of school, the pain of homesickness, and the strain of their eventful first date. He had smiled as those bilious pills he’d swallowed bucked and heaved in his stomach. But they couldn’t stay down forever, and now, it seemed, was the time they all came hurling to the surface.  

                Between the force of his sobs, he missed the cue of webbed feet on wood floors sounding from the hallway. “Panchito? Are you okay?” Donald voice sounded from his doorway.

                Turns out, he thought, he was not as alone as he’d previously assumed. “I’m fine!” Panchito sniffled.

                “Yeah, you don’t sound fine.” He heard Donald shuffle over to his bed and felt him plunk down beside him. Donald began to wrap his arms around his boyfriend but stopped when he felt his wet clothing. “You’re all wet! And freezing cold!” Donald jumped up from the duvet. “That’s it, I’m running you a hot bath. Get up and take off those wet clothes.”

                Despite his shitty day, Panchito was still Panchito, and it’d be remiss of him to ignore a golden opportunity to tease Donald. “Donal’… you’re so forward all of a sudden… shouldn’t we at least wait for Ze before we—”

Blushing deeply, Donald thwapped the cover of Panchito’s bed. “Not like that! Just undress and wait here a second ok?”

                Donald walked out of his room and closed the door behind him. Panchito sat on his bed a moment longer, face still buried in his pillow, until the sounds of a bath being drawn signaled him to move. He stood up to strip off his wet clothes, throwing them into a heap on the ground, and wrapped a bath towel around his waist. He padded down the hallways, following the faint sound of Donald humming over the rush of running water, to the communal bathroom and found Donald pouring bubble bath into the tub. Walking up behind him, Panchito placed a hand on the nape of Donald’s neck, startling his boyfriend into dropping the bottle he held into the tub. Water splashed up the sides and onto the floor.

                “Don’t startle me like that!”

                Panchito leaned forward to press a kiss to the back of Donald’s neck. “Sorry, mi amor.”

                Grumbling a bit, Donald fished out the bottle from the tub. “Ok, you can get in now.” Donald turned to leave, but Panchito grabbed his wet sleeve to stop him.

                “Keep me company?”

                Donald hesitated. They still hadn’t gone beyond kissing and some heavy petting that Donald had put the kibosh on before they got carried away. Donald wasn’t sure if José and Panchito were having sex while they waited for Donald to ready himself, but if they _were_ it wasn’t like he stayed awake at night fantasizing about it or anything. Well… maybe his mind had wandered there in his randier moments. Still, there was a huge gulf between imagination and actual intimate contact. The thought of watching Panchito bathe felt intimate, and it made Donald’s stomach stir in a peculiar way. A not quite good, not quite bad kind of way. A squirming in your guts that arises from that mixture of nervous excitement and anxious dread. But Panchito’s voice, tinged with sadness, made his heart ache. In the end, his need to take care of others beat out the dregs of apprehension brewing within him. “Ok.” He covered his eyes with his hands and turned away. The soft thump of a towel hitting the bathroom rug was followed by the sound of Panchito submerging himself into the water. Donald counted the seconds as they passed to ensure Panchito had time to make himself decent. Whether it was for Panchito’s sake or his own, he couldn’t say. “Is the temperature ok?”

                “Perfect.” Panchito closed his eyes and sighed. “You can turn around now.”

                Donald did and stooped to kneel on the bath mat, arms on the tub’s rim, his chin resting on top. “Wanna talk about it?”

                “I had a bad day. You know what that’s like.”

                “No kidding.” Donald snorted.

                “Who gets stuck with all the bad luck?” Crooned Panchito. He knew Donald hated when they sang that ditty they composed, but he liked it regardless. _Who’s got the sweetest disposition?_ Well, there was a certain truth to that, wasn’t there?

                “You’re avoiding my question.” There was a serious edge to Donald’s voice that Panchito wasn’t expecting.

                Panchito opened one eye to peek at Donald. He was so cute. Panchito was never going to get over it. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was to net two prizes like Donald and José. “You know if you want to cheer me up, there is one thing you could do.”

                Donald slipped off the rim and squawked in surprise. Panchito giggled at his nervous antics. Donald was still Donald after all. “I would like a kiss.”

                “O-Oh.”

                “What did you think I meant? Pícaro.”

                Donald wrung his hands nervously; he wasn’t the one who initiated kisses usually. That was Panchito’s territory, or José’s. His words from the other day echoed in his head: _Maybe I need a little pushing._ He had said that hadn’t he? It couldn’t _always_ be Zé and Panchito to push him forwards. And he had promised them that he’d try harder, for them, for himself. So why not now? With his mind made up, Donald leaned in slowly, breath ghosting Panchito’s face, hooded eyes watching a drop of water dangle precariously from his chin. For once, Donald had caught _Panchito_ off guard. He had expected his boyfriend to brush off his flirtatious teasing like usual. Half-serious, half-joking, it was the perfect way to deflect and distract. Instead of hemming and hawing, however, Donald was lightly cupping Panchito’s cheek and tilting his head with an air of gravitas quite unlike him. Their beaks met, and Panchito felt his hands tremble and his heart pound. Donald deepened the kiss, and in the intervening moments all Panchito could hear was the slow drip of water from the faucet as it struck the surface of the water and the nervous palpitations of his heart. They pulled away shakily.

                “Woah,” Panchito whispered under his breath looking at Donald all starry-eyed.

                Donald paused. He was about to do something he felt unsure about, but dammit all—Fortune favors the bold. Donald was the reckless sort, after all, and he couldn’t stop the forward momentum of his own spontaneity . Perhaps it was something about Panchito’s dejected look that made Donald resolute to do anything to get that sunny smile back on his beau’s face. It wasn’t fair to deny the world that light. And, if Donald was being painfully honest, _he_ needed it too. He could feel himself starting to wilt without it.  “Panchito, close your eyes. Don’t open ‘em until I say so.”

                Still reeling from their kiss, Panchito could only respond with a nervous stuttering assent. He did as he was told. With closed eyes, Panchito heard the soft sound of clothes hitting the floor and the sloshing of displaced water. Here, in the self-imposed darkness, Panchito could feel the thundering of his heart as the seconds stretched into a lifetime.

                Donald inhaled deeply, “Ok. You can open ‘em. Your eyes, I mean.”

                Even though Panchito had seen Donald shirtless before, he felt a frenetic, nervous energy buzzing inside him. The Donald Duck that Panchito knew were a lot of things: grumpy, goofy, sarcastic, bashful, cute, to name a few. But he didn’t think he could be so… _alluring_. Yet here they were with their roles flipped, Donald acting boldly, and Panchito the one feeling skittish. Opening his eyes, he saw Donald was lying facing him; eyes trained intensely on his own. Donald poked Panchito’s foot with his own. “We can’t both be the grumpy one. It throws our whole dynamic off.”

                Panchito felt his heart sink a little, but what did he expect? He knew his role. He forced a smile, “Sorry—”

                “I wasn’t finished. We can’t both be the grumpy one. So, I’ll be the happy, sunny one today. It’s my turn to cheer _you_ up. I owe you that much. God knows you’ve done it time and time again for me.”

                Feeling his disingenuous smile slip, Panchito started to choke up and began to cry. Of all things, he did not expect to hear that, and Donald’s sudden words dislodged the pent-up stress of the day once again. Like always, he had been ready to put his feelings aside to jump to his role as the mediator. Donald looked him squarely in the eyes and did his best imitation of Panchito’s wide grin. It was a pained, forced grimace to be honest, and it made Panchito start to giggle mid-sob. “I had a really, _really_ shitty day, Patito.”

               Donald sought out the hand that Panchito had been resting on the tub’s rim and held it firmly. “Well… take it from someone who has countless shitty days himself. You’re entitled to feel however you want. You can cry or rant or yell—whatever you want. No judgement.” Donald paused and gave Panchito’s hand a firm squeeze. “When I was little, I would get so mad sometimes that I’d totally wreck my room. Full-blown tantrum. I’d rip apart my pillows and send feathers flying everywhere, knock books off of shelves, pull the drawers out of my wardrobe. One time, heh, I punched the wall.”

                “You punched a wall? Seriously?” Panchito gaped. He knew Donald had a temper, but he didn’t know he’d _hurt_ himself like that.

                “Oh yeah. Busted my hand up something awful. Scrooge flipped his lid, big time.” Donald flexed his right hand as if to check its mobility. “Anyway, after that I felt so ashamed about what I had done. It was so scary and painful to lose control of myself like that.” Donald relaxed his hand. “I kept apologizing over and over to my uncle until he sat me down and said, ‘Don’t feel bad about feeling bad.’” The smile that crept on to Donald’s face was genuine reflecting the soft, warm glow that a parent’s love can instill. “He didn’t treat me like a problem that needed to be fixed like the other adults in my life did. He said it was important to allow yourself to feel things or else all that energy builds and explodes. And he never wanted to see me hurt myself or get in my own way. He gave me that permission to feel, and it helped me control my anger. Redirect it. Away from myself and into creative outlets.”

                “Like music.”

                Donald looked up from his hand. “Yeah. Like music.”

                “Your uncle sounds like a wonderful man.”

                “Heh, he is. He loves me a lot.”

                “Sounds like it.”

                His feet were touching Panchito’s now. “The point _being_ , you don’t need to put on a happy face. Not for me. Not for anybody. You don’t owe that to the world. How you feel is how you feel, and your feelings are valid. You’re entitled to them.” Donald rubbed his thumb over Panchito’s palm. “So, today I’ll be the one to take care of you, ok?”

                “Yeah, ok. I think I can do that.” A coil of tension he hadn’t known he’d been holding onto began to unwind within him. “Thank you, Donal’.”

                “You deserve it. You’re a good person, Panchito. Someone’s gotta tell you that some time ‘cause it’s true.”

                 Later, when the heat of the water dissipated, and the fogged mirror cleared, and the pains and aches of the present moment were assuaged, the two of them would retire from the bathroom as the faded golden light of the afternoon sun filtered through the window. The sphere of safety they forged hadn’t vanished, but merely trailed behind the ambling path they made. Out of the meandering uncertainty of the day and into the moments that lay ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Panchito is a genuinely happy, bright, genial person, but he has his own hang-ups as well. He's definitely the member who is the most sensitive and in-tune with other's feelings out of the trio. Usually it's a good thing, it makes him sympathetic and kind, but it can also push aside his emotions as well. 
> 
> As usual, I tend to infuse these good boys with traits that resemble my own. Panchito gets my ADHD, my goofiness, my penchant for one-liners, and my sensitivity when it comes to perceiving other people's issues. Sorry for making you suffer in this chapter, Panch.
> 
> LEAVE ME COMMENTS. THEY FEED ME AND NOURISH MY SOUL.


	4. Spring Break is For Lovers (And Meeting Said Lover's Uncle): Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donald goes home for spring break. His trip home is special this time... because he's introducing José and Panchito to his dear Uncle Scrooge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is only the beginning folks. I decided to split the chapter into several since it was already at 3,000 words and it wasn't close to covering the first day home.

Entering the foyer of his childhood home, Donald wondered if he’d made a mistake in bringing his boyfriends here. Jose and Panchito had convinced him into letting them join him on his trip home for spring break. It had taken much needling and persuasion to finally get Donald to assent, but here they were, standing in the McDuck Manor.

But Donald felt his guts twist in a knot as he remembered inviting friends and partners to his house in the past. To this day, Donald still couldn’t dissuade Scrooge of the notion that Mickey wasn't his middle school boyfriend. He shuddered at the memory of his uncle catching the two of them  _practicing_ kissing (or so he had feverishly tried to argue to Scrooge). 

His uncle smiled with glee upon seeing his duckling come back to the nest. He didn’t like to admit it, but the house felt a lot emptier without Donald running through its halls. Scrooge wrapped Donald in a tight embrace, lifting him off the floor as he did so.

            “Geez, Scrooge…” Donald groaned with embarrassment, but returned the hug with equal warmth. When they parted, he caught the familiar glimmer of mischief in his uncle’s eyes. Before he had time to act, Scrooge had already turned to address José and Panchito.

            “So, you must be the inamoratos. I’ve heard so much about you two.”

            Donald could feel a blush crawl up his face and grace his cheeks. He had pleaded, he had begged his Uncle to not lay it on too thick when he introduced his friends. He’d known, even as he begged, the utter futility of his efforts, of course.

            The three of them exchanged greetings and took turns shaking hands, thanking his uncle for his hospitality.

“Thank you for having us, sir. You’re home is lovely.” Panchito shook Scrooge’s hand firmly.

“Er. Yes. It’s quite … large. Um, I mean, It’s very kind of you to let us stay here over break.” José replied.

Donald suppressed the urge to laugh at the two of them, acting more polite than he’d ever known them to act before. On Panchito’s part, it seemed genuine, but José’s interactions with his uncle were stiff and charged with the kind of nervous energy appropriate to a job interview. It was strange to see Jose, usually so confident, act this reticent; especially around his uncle of all people. _I mean it’s just Scrooge_ , Donald thought, _not someone important like, I don’t know, the president or whatever._ His uncle was so well… _him._ Donald couldn’t imagine worrying about Scrooge’s thoughts about anyone, let alone two people who clearly cared for him. This is the man who burst into tears at the slightest drop of a hat, well, that is, as long as it was _Donald_ who dropped the hat.

            Duckworth approached to politely greet their houseguests and welcome them to their home. When he turned to Donald, he received the usual ruffle of head feathers. “It’s wonderful to see you, poppet. Even if you still insist on dressing like a waif after all these years.”

Donald brushed Duckworth’s hand off his head. “Good to see you, too, Sir Benedict Duckworthington the IV,” Donald replied poshly with a pantomimed curtsy.  

Duckworth smirked at him before turning back to their guests. With the introductions over, Duckworth quickly switched back into his role of the house butler as he courteously asked their guests to follow him to their rooms. Donald waved at his friends as they walked up the stairs towards the west wing. Panchito smiled at him and waved back, but José merely looked at him uncertainly.

The first introductions had passed far too smoothly for Donald’s liking. He watched his friends disappear from view with the distinct feeling that the worst was yet to come.

For now, however, he was left alone with his uncle who still wore a grin that barely contained his joy.

            “You look well, Donnie. There’s a certain… glow about you!” Scrooge hooked his arm over Donald’s shoulder, pulling his face closer to kiss his cheek.

            “Quit slobbering on me, old man. And wipe that grin off your face.” Their familiar routine of faux-orneriness, a rehearsal that had no real bite behind it, made Donald feel instantly at home.  

            “Oh,” said Scrooge playfully bumping his hip against Donald’s own, “I’m not allowed to greet my favorite nephew anymore? He runs off to college, sweeps two handsome young men off their feet, and now he’s suddenly too cool for his Unca Scrooge?”

            God, Donald hoped against hope that Scrooge would kindly fail to let that particular childhood appellation slip around Panch and Zé. He rolled his eyes at Scrooge with a huff he’d perfected during his teen years.

            Scrooge chuckled at Donald’s theatrical gestures of exasperation as the two of them made their way up the stairs in the direction of Donald’s bedroom. It took Donald a moment to register that Duckworth had led their guests in the opposite direction. “Did you put my friends in the west wing?”

            With a sly glance in his direction, Scrooge nodded. “You didn’t think I was going to let you all room together during this trip, did you?”

            “Well.” Actually, Donald had. After all, Scrooge knew they all lived together. What difference could it possibly make to let them share one room?

            His uncle let out a tut of reprobation. “I was young once too, you know. I know how you kids are.”

            “Oh my god. Please don’t, Unca Scrooge.”

            “Just because you’re grown doesn’t mean you’re not my baby anymore. I won’t facilitate any hanky-panky under my roof. And don’t think you can sneak off to their rooms after hours. I’ve got my eye on you, young man.”

            A proper blush worked its way onto Donald’s cheeks and down his neck.

            “If I hear any mischief, I’ll come rushing in like gangbangers.”

            Donald nearly choked. “Gangbusters, uncle. You mean gangbusters.”

            “Hm? What’s the difference?”

            “Nothing. Forget it.” At the rate Scrooge was going, Donald would be dead of embarrassment before the week got out.

            They reached his door, and Donald turned the knob to his childhood bedroom. His room looked the same since he left it last. Band posters up on the wall next to the framed print of Darkwing Duck (signed by the man himself), comics and novels lining his shelves, pictures of his friends smiling into camera lenses, plastic glow in the dark stars affixed to the ceiling, stuffed animals propped against his bed’s headboard. It was home. He plopped his duffel bag next to his bed, making a mental note to stash his stuffed animals away; he didn’t want his friends to see them.

            He turned back to his uncle. “Uncle Scrooge, I know we talked about this before, but… please, _please_ be cool while our guests are here, ok?”

            Scrooge scoffed, “Please, nephew. I practically invented cool.”

            “No. No, you did not, Unca.” Donald rolled his eyes. At the rate he was going, he sincerely started to worry about his ocular health during this trip. Could your retinas detach from rolling your eyes too much? He was pretty sure that was possible.

            Scrooge bumped him with his hip again and smiled. “Alright, alright. I’ll let you unpack. Just give me one more smooch.”

            Donald sighed as Scrooge pulled him in for another kiss on the cheek. This was going to be a long week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This feels like too short a chapter to post, but it's really part of a big, long chapter. It's been so long since I last updated though that I should just bite the bullet and post it in parts.


	5. Have You Ever Been to Bahia?: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that he's here, José not sure coming to meet Scrooge McDuck was a good idea.

“Hey, Zé?” Panchito was lying down on the neatly made bed in his guest room; José’s room was located just across the hall, but the parrot had immediately left his own chamber in favor of Panchito’s. He’d felt uneasy, from the moment he stepped foot into the McDuck Manor to the moment he was left alone in his temporary abode to unpack his luggage. The butler splitting them from Donald’s side did little to soothe his nerves. It was bad enough they weren’t apparently rooming together, but now he didn’t even have Donald to hold his hand and reassure him when he needed it.

 _It’s… large._ Why had he said that? No shit, Sherlock! Of course it’s large! It’s Scrooge McDuck’s Manor. He was only the world’s richest duck after all—what was he expecting, a shack?

Donald had warned him, warned them both, almost apologetically, about his uncle’s vast wealth. Being Scrooge McDuck’s sole ward was not what they imagined. That kind of wealth, coupled with his uncle’s eccentricities, made introductions a tad _overwhelming,_ to say the least. Yet, José had insisted. Donald wasn’t exactly the most forthright when it came to personal information, especially about his family. Or his problems. Or his feelings. Or, well, anything really.

So what better way to get Donald to open up then to visit his home and meet the man who raised him? But now it all felt like so much, and Donald wasn’t here to tell him it was all going to be ok.

So, he’d picked himself up, walked across the hall over to Panchito’s room, in search of the only other person who could always make him feel calm, no matter the situation. Now he was watching said man balance a throw pillow on the soles of his feet as he reclined on his bed, looking like he’d made himself perfectly at home in their strange surroundings.

“Yes, Panchito?”

“Is it just me or is Donald’s tio kind of hot?”

            With none of his usual languid grace, José clambered over to the bed. He grabbed Panchito’s cheeks staring at him intensely. “Panchito, you beautiful genius, that’s exactly what I was thinking. Are you a mind reader?”

            Panchito laughed delightedly and dropped his pillow and lowered his legs. José climbed on top of his chest leaning his head underneath Panchito’s chin. It wasn’t what José had been thinking at all, but he was nothing if not a good actor. And he desperately needed a distraction from his anxiety, so he happily played along.

Panchito traced lazy circles with his finger against José’s back. “Do you think we could persuade Donald into growing out his own feathers?”

José snorted. “Definitely not.” With an ear to Panchito’s chest, he could hear the steady, comforting rhythm of his heart like a lullaby. He let his eyes drift closed. “We’ll play the long game. We’ll be sitting on the balcony of our colonial house in Bahia, old and grey and wrinkled, and everyone who passes by will burn with envy when they see our silver-fox of a husband.”

He could see it clearly in his mind, the brightly candy-colored exterior washed with sun. It’s curved sash windows with white-glazed wood separating the panes. Inside the house was an upright piano in the parlor, secondhand, but perfectly tuned. The interior would be richly decorated, without being ostentatious. Paintings would hang on the walls, not originals but reproductions, of his favorite artist’s works. Tarsila do Amaral, Candido Portinari, Victor Meirelles, Anita Malfatti. José would live there with his amores. They’d have a fat, black cat who would nap in sunbeams and bat at their feet as they walked past. They would be happy and well-fed, and their contentment would fill the empty spaces of their abode so that every inch of every room was suffused with love. It’d be more than a house. It would be their home.

It was a longheld fantasy, one he rarely indulged in, for, as lovely as it was, it was bittersweet. It was too good for him, and he knew it’d never move beyond the workings of his mind. Still, he wanted it so badly. So, he held it in his mind like a child does a piece of candy in their mouth, doing his best to savor the sweetness before it dissolved. A chimerical dream to soothe the ache of loneliness.

It was scary. It was so fucking scary. Being like this. So much more than anyone said.

He thought of the boys he’d loved: the stupid little crushes he’d nursed. The boys who’d never love him back. The ones who hated him for it. The ones who turned away in disgust. The ones who loved him back, briefly, but hesitantly, always ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. All the snide remarks, the slurs scrawled on locker walls, the isolation, the fear.

            Things were better now. Against all odds he’d come out the other side of his adolescent years still breathing. He met Panchito and Donald. They fell in love. Yet, even as he was lying on Panchito’s chest listening to the beat of his heart, the niggling doubts wormed into his mind. Could this really last? They’d found even footing after their disastrous first date and in the intervening weeks that followed. The ones that lead him here: to the home of his boyfriend’s uncle. The place unnerved him, and he wondered if Panchito felt the same. It was so unlike the homes they’d grown up in, and it was strange to think Donald grew up here, in the lap of luxury. This world felt so foreign to the one he’d known. And McDuck, a mythical figure who rivaled the gods of old, especially disquieted him. What did he see when he looked at José? Did he see anyone at all? Or was he just another poor unfortunate, the kind that always served as the backdrop of Scrooge’s imperialist empire-building. The ones whose bones were ground to form the walls of his multinational corporation. A grand testament to the man’s self-aggrandizement.

            He loved Donald, but Scrooge? He feared him. He resented him. For the things he stood for and the things he’d certainly done in his quest for wealth.

              Enough of that, he thought, he didn’t want to think about this right now. He cast his mind back to the well-worn halls of his fantasy. The corridors he ghosted through time and time again when he’d been in need of comfort. He’d never spoken of it, not even to Panchito and Donald, and his half-hearted joke was the most he’d ever vocalized it before. It too intimate, too personal, for mere words to relay.

            Panchito shifted underneath him placing a hand on Jose’s head; he ruffled the feather’s there and hummed thoughtfully. “Husbands, you say?”

            José froze. Had he said that? It was far more than he intended to intimate, but the hand stroking his head kept him anchored and centered. And the cadence sounding from within Panchito’s chest kept his breathing even and calm.

            “Sounds nice.” Panchito wrapped his strong arms around José.

            If he couldn’t find the words, then he’d find another way. A painting, perhaps. He could bare his soul on the canvas in ways he never could otherwise. He’d paint his fantasy for his loves, so they could know every inch of his heart like Jose did the walls and floors of his own private refuge.

            For now, though, he was content to let himself drift off to sleep in his lover’s arms with the sound of his heart to remind him he was not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh? What's that? You thought this would be all fluff about Scrooge and Donald? You Fool. You absolute buffoon. Of course not! There's gonna be emotional hangups and drama to work through! This is galoot's fic's after all, and everyone has to have major anxiety about everything. 
> 
> I like this chapter a lot actually. I was going for a similar tone to the Panchito chapter here.  
> Also all those painters José mentioned are real Brazilian painters. I do my research. Check 'em out.


	6. Born in a Flash: Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a family dinner together, Scrooge and the others take a little trip down memory lane.

A soft rapping at the door roused José from his slumber. Using a hand to prop himself up, he called out groggily to the person knocking on the door. A soft voice with a posh British accent replied; not Donald then, José thought with disappointment.

            “Terribly sorry to interrupt you from your nap, sirs, but dinner is ready, and your presences are requested.”

            “Alright, we’ll be right down.” Jose went to shake Panchito awake, only to find him with his eyes already open and looking quite alert.

            “Morning, sleeping beauty. Have a good nap?”

            José blinked at Panchito with confusion. “Were you awake the whole time?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Why didn’t you wake me up, then?”

            “You looked so beautiful. I couldn’t bring myself to disturb you.” Panchito slid out from under him and got out of bed. The sudden lack of warmth made José shiver. “C’mon. Let’s go see what rich people eat for dinner.”

            Panchito padded softly out the doorway while José lay in bed, trying to collect himself. Wait, how did the butler know he was in here? Spooky. He was like a ghost. José didn’t trust spooky British butler ghosts who seemingly apparated out of nowhere and knew exactly where you were and what you were doing at all times. His vovó always warned him not to trust spirits. Although, he was pretty hungry, and McDuck’s butler had seemed fairly corporeal earlier, so it was probably fine. Donald would have told him if his uncle’s butler was a ghost, right? Besides, the two of them seemed to be pretty close so if he was an evil spirit he’d probably not eat him for Donald’s sake.

            Somehow, José made his sleep-addled way down to the dining room. Everyone was already seated at the table, and José suddenly felt rude for keeping them all waiting. He hurried to the seat next to Donald who placed a hand warmly on his shoulder.

            The butler reappeared as soon as he was seated, and José’s paranormal suspicions were renewed. He said nothing but decided to tread lightly around this strange fellow. Better safe than sorry, after all. José sat quietly while the others chatted away and the butler served them dinner. When he was finally served, he could only stare down at the food in front of him. It was a simple lentil dish and an unimpressive looking one at that. He tasted it and, while he had to admit it tasted quite good, didn’t seem like the kind of food a billionaire should eat. It was so frugal. There wasn’t even any meat in it! Why would someone so rich eat this for dinner? Or choose to serve it to his guests?

            Before he could puzzle it out further, the butler popped up in between him and Donald, nearly scaring the dickens out of them both.

            “Donald, please put your napkin on your lap when you eat.”

            Donald whispered to him through gritted teeth, trying to save face. “Duckworth, please.”

            The butler, Duckworth (right, that was his name), unfolded the cloth napkin and placed it on Donald’s lap. He tutted at Donald. “I know I taught you better manners than this. You act as if you were raised in a barn.”

            Donald avoided everyone’s eyes as he stared at his plate in utter mortification. Panchito grinned at José with amusement and gave him a wiggle of the eyebrows before resuming his conversation about his studies with Scrooge. The old man seemed quite impressed with the heavy course-load Panchito had taken on.

            “So,” Scrooge said, “Organic chemistry, Calculus, Physics, and Sustainable Engineering? That’s quite the course work you’ve taken on. What are your career plans?”

            “Well,” Panchito dabbed daintily at his beak with his napkin, an act that made Duckworth smile approvingly in his direction, “Ideally, I’d like to work in the private sector, helping corporations find cost-effective ways to reduce the environmental impact of large-scale chemical manufacturing. I believe engineers can help design plants and meet their clients’ needs without sacrificing industrial safety and protecting the environment, all while saving their clients money in the long-run.”

            “My! You’re quite the bright young lad, aren’t you? McDuck Enterprise has a few chemical plants under our purview, and we’re always looking for greener ways to manufacture and transport chemicals. Got to leave the planet in good shape for you youngsters.” Scrooge leaned over and tweaked Donald’s ear lovingly. “I’d expect some grandkids eventually, and I want the Earth to be in good shape when they get there.”

            Donald blushed at his uncle’s teasing and tried to hide his face in his hands. José smiled at how cute Donald was; he didn’t think he’d be so shy around his uncle. He was usually so brash and shameless, and it took a lot of teasing from José and Panchito to bring out that side of him. And, when they succeeded, Donald always groused at them to cover his embarrassment. Around Scrooge, however, he was much more winsome and benign. Less of a roaring lion and more of a mewling kitten so it seemed. José was surprised, but not shocked. After all, one doesn’t act the same way in front of your parents as you do your friends, but still, for all the fronting Donald usually did, it was strange to see him fail to protest at all. He dropped his surly, argumentative veneer when Scrooge needled him, acting disarmingly shy instead.

            Scrooge was unfazed by Donald’s reaction and merely chuckled at him. José exchanged a glance with Panchito. _This was unreal_ they silently communicated across the table. They’d wanted to see that side of Donald, it was partially why they had come, but Scrooge had coaxed it out in seconds whereas it took months for José and Panchito to get Donald to drop his guard. Even before they had started dating, the process it took to befriend Donald and get him to slowly open up was a long one.

            Scrooge didn’t linger on it, for even a moment. “Don’t cover your face at the dinner table, sweetheart.” Donald dropped his hands from his face obligingly and pouted sullenly while Scrooge resumed the conversation.

            “Well, Panchito, I must say, the world could use more conscientious young men like yourself. Perhaps I’ll have the pleasure of seeking your services in the future.”

            “I’d love to, Mr. McDuck.” Panchito looked pleased to have gained Scrooge’s approval so quickly.

            “Please, just Scrooge is fine. No need for formalities.”

            José gawked at Panchito; how did he do that? He’d endeared himself so easily while José had barely spoken at word so far. He knew Panchito was good with people, but this was ridiculous. Wasn’t he even a little intimidated by Scrooge?  

            As if he somehow could read his thoughts, Scrooge set his eyes on José next. Can he smell weakness? That wasn’t possible, right? Scrooge smiled at him, but to José it looked like the predatory, toothy grin of a wolf staring down his dinner.

            “So, what about you, José? What are you studying?”

            “Oh, um. Theater.”

            “Oh, I see. A thespian, then.”

            José wondered if he should have lied. Following Panchito was no easy task, and he doubted a man like Scrooge would find his choice of study impressive. Why didn’t he choose a more lucrative career? Sure, business would have bored him to tears, but at least it might please his boyfriend’s rich uncle.

            Donald mercifully cut in to provide the words that suddenly failed José. “Yeah, Zé is an excellent actor, Uncle Scrooge. He’s been in tons of productions already. Lead roles, too. They never give those to sophomores.”

            “Indeed!” Panchito added in, “He brought the house down during his last performance. José passion really shines through when he’s got an audience.”

            “Totally! He always brings that extra something to our gigs too. He really brings us all together, on stage and off. He’s really special that way. And he always has the perfect one-liner, and he’s really good at parties, and he’s charming. Thoughtful, too. He…”

            Donald was caught off guard when he noticed José staring at him in the middle of singing his praises. José looked at him fondly, slightly embarrassed to hear Donald go on and on about how great he thought he was. His voice took on that confident, loud tenor it got whenever Donald spoke about something he genuinely loved. They’d almost always heard it when Donald talked about music, but to hear Donald speak about him with such reverence was…

            José glanced down shyly as Donald did the same.

            “A-anyway, um, he’s really great, Uncle Scrooge. Maybe you can see him in his next performance.”

            José didn’t look up to see Scrooge’s expression, but he sounded quite pleased. They continued to chat throughout dinner and dessert, and José found that he was enjoying himself despite his misgivings about Scrooge. Once the table was cleared, and time had passed, Scrooge placed his hands on the table decisively and stood up.

            “How would you boys like to see some family photos?”

            José and Panchito both perked up at the suggestion while a look of utter horror slowly dawned on Donald’s face.

            “I-I’m sure, we don’t want to bore them with a bunch of old photos, uncle. Why don’t we play a board game instead?”

            Panchito stood up from the dining table. “Actually, I’d love to see some photos.”

            “Me too,” added José.

            “Excellent! Follow me, lads.” Scrooge led them out of the dining room and into the parlor.

            Donald jogged behind them to catch up still trying to redirect their attention. “Wait! We can play Monopoly, Uncle Scrooge. Your favorite! You can even be the top hat!”

            Scrooge nudged José conspiratorially and spoke to him quietly, “He must _really_ like you if he’s desperate enough to suggest Monopoly. He’s refused to play that game with me for years.”

            José couldn’t stop him mouth from crinkling with amusement.

            “Well, don’t worry boys. Donald should know by now that he can’t outfox his sly Ol’ Uncle Scrooge.”

            The three of them ignored Donald’s plea’s as Scrooge grabbed a stack of old leather-bound photo albums and gestured for his guests to have a seat. The couch they sat on was old, sagging, and wildly uncomfortable. José was bewildered once again; this couch had to be older than Scrooge himself. Why keep such a beat-up old thing when he could not only afford a new one, but buy the whole damn furniture outlet while he was at it?

            With photo albums in hand, Scrooge seated himself in the free space next to Panchito. José leaned on the couch’s armrest, but an errant spring jabbed his arm when he tried to put his weight on it. Better not, then, he thought, and leaned toward Panchito instead.

            In the meantime, Scrooge had beckoned Donald over to the couch by patting the empty seat next to him. Once again, Donald obliged him without even voicing a complaint. José marveled at the power Scrooge had over Donald. Never had he seen him so amenable. It was beginning to dawn on him that for all Donald’s posturing about his uncle, he was really a gigantic pushover when it came to Scrooge.

            Donald sat with his arms crossed sullenly, but José swore he was him scooch closer to his uncle. Without delay, Scrooge cracked open the photo album and started narrating over the photos. They were immediately greeted with a photo of Donald’s feathery bottom bared to the camera while Donald looked cheekily back at the lens.

            “Ach, this is one of my favorites!” Scrooge exclaimed, “You know, I tried to get my advertising executives to use this photo for the McDuck brand diapers billboards.”

            “Oh?” José snickered at the picture much to Donald’s chagrin. “Do tell, Mr. McDuck.”

            “Please, just Scrooge, lad. Yes, well. They insisted it wasn’t a ‘good idea’ or ‘a smart business move.’ Can you believe that?”

            “Monsters!” Panchito cried. “Clearly, they had no taste.” He snapped a quick picture of Donald’s baby photo with his phone. Donald was going to kill him later, but he didn’t care. Totally worth it.

            “Exactly! I couldn’t get them to run it. They forced me to bin the idea.”

            “Such a shame.” Panchito solemnly shook his head.

            Scrooge sighed. “I know. I’m certain our sales wouldn’t have been so dismal if we’d gone ahead with my ad campaign.”

            The sound of Donald thumping his head against the couch’s backboard in frustration provided a steady beat for their whole exchange. Panchito wished fervently that he was in the proper position to snap a picture of Donald’s face right now. He’d have to do the next best thing.

            “Maybe you could pitch the idea to them again, Scrooge. It's been long enough. Surely they’ve come to their senses by now.”

            “You know, that’s not a bad idea, Panchito! I ought to give it a try.”

            Donald was _definitely_ going to kill him.

            Scrooge flipped the page, but quickly flipped past the photo he’d seen there. Donald revived from his comatose state of unbelievable anger to question his uncle’s suspicious behavior.

            “Hold it!” Donald seized the page and flipped back to the photo Scrooge had tried to nonchalantly skip. “Hah!” Donald pointed at a photo of Scrooge sobbing while he held a confused looking baby Donald. “I remember this story. Zé, Panch, take a look.”

            The two of them peered at the photo, and Panchito quietly snapped another picture with his phone.

            “I was just born, and my parents invited Scrooge over to see me. When my dad handed me to Scrooge, he immediately started panicking.”

            The Scrooge in the picture did look quite the sight with his face contorted in mid-sob and tears streaming down his face.

            Scrooge harrumphed. “As I remember it, I was _quite_ stressed that quarter. I had been working nonstop with almost no sleep and—”

            “He’s lying.” Donald grinned vindictively at his uncle. “He’s just trying to look cool in front of you guys. Don’t let him fool ya’ though, he’s a big, old softie.”

            Scrooge flipped the page testily. ‘Watch it, you. Don’t think I won’t spank you now that your grown.”

            “Bah! Yeah right. Like you could ever bear to raise a hand to me.” Donald leaned forward to look at José and Panchito. “My unkie-dunkie here is all bark and no bite. He _wuvs_ me, ain’t that right?’ Donald bat his eyes at Scrooge who looked firmly away from him.

            “ _Moving on_ , look! Here’s a good one.”

            José wondered how the two of them thought they could fool anyone with their little routine. These two were joined at the hip. He was starting to feel like the world’s most awkward third wheel watching their antics.

            They continued to flip through snapshots of Donald’s childhood: pictures of him posing with Mickey and Goofy from kindergarten all the way to high school. Awkward school pictures of Donald with a truly horrendous bowl cut—Donald explained bitterly that Scrooge used to cut his hair to save money, and Scrooge muttered a comment about Donald looking cute anyway. Pictures of birthdays, recitals, and holidays; José was shocked to see how many years Donald dressed as his uncle for Halloween. A montage of Donald as a sullen teen, sneering at the camera, his long hair covering his face, and his sailor suit replaced with band t-shirts and ripped jeans. Donald with his date at homecoming, then Sadie’s, and finally prom; was this the Daisy that Donald had mentioned?

            As they made their way through the albums, Scrooge and Donald traded toothless barbs and egged each other on. And though Donald would groan and act embarrassed, it was clear he loved the attention his uncle was all too happy to provide. José observed Donald drape himself over his uncle’s shoulder, his head nestled in the crook of Scrooge’s neck. It was so strange to see Donald so relaxed and unguarded. José felt a little stab of envy towards Scrooge. How could he not, when it had taken so long for Donald to warm up to them, let alone feel comfortable with physical affection; a hump they hadn’t quite yet comfortably cleared. It was silly, he realized, to envy Scrooge for this—Donald had known him his whole life while they’d only recently entered his. Yet he felt it all the same. Through all the scoffs, the annoyed eyerolls, and the exasperated huffs, it was clear Donald adored his uncle. And Scrooge obviously loved him in equal measure. If José hadn’t known better, he’d think they were father and son.

            Eventually, they’d reached a series of photos where Donald looked increasingly listless. The mood dropped suddenly, and Donald wasn’t so jovial anymore. It must have been the interlude Donald had spent at home; between dropping out of college and staring over at their current university. What Donald referred to as his Wellbutrin period as the medicine had caused some weight gain, and Donald looked noticeably heavy in the pictures. Donald looked unhappy to see these photos of himself; real displeasure, not the affected kind from before. They’d never talked about it, at least, not in so many words, so José only knew the basics. He knew that Donald had bottomed out during his first run at college and had to take time off to address a burgeoning mental illness. Obviously, he’d known it was serious, but not _serious._ After all, he’d only known Donald when he was on the mend, and Donald seemed all too relieved to gloss over that portion of his life. But now, upon seeing the pained look on Donald’s face, he began to wonder: should they have talked about it?

            He thought back to their first date, all the weird behaviors José had brushed off as just Donald being Donald. And a hundred small moments both before and after that José had found troubling or strange. Like Donald’s reluctance to talk or open up, even about minor things. Or situations where he’d reacted with the kind of panicky anxiety that José found frightening and unwarranted. Thinking harder, he recalled whole days where Donald skipped class, lying in bed all day instead. They’d been concerned, of course, but they let Donald persuade them to let it pass unquestioned.

            He thought about that day he’d come home to find Panchito and Donald curled up in bed together. Later, Panchito had relayed the ways Donald had taken care of him and had been there for him after a truly awful day. A creeping fear came over him; had he failed to do the same for Donald? How could this only be occurring to him now?

            Scrooge closed the photobook with a thump, breaking José train of thought. Disturbed, but not forgotten; he made a mental note to bring the issue up when the time was right. He owed Donald the same kind of support he offered both of them.

            “Well,” Scrooge said, “that about covers that. We’ll have to take new photos to add to our album during this trip, don’t you think?”

            The thought of ending up in someone else’s photo album tickled José. Maybe getting to know Scrooge a little better wouldn’t be so bad after all. He didn’t totally trust him yet, but he at least knew they had one thing in common: they both loved Donald an awful lot.

            “Actually, Scrooge,” Panchito replied, “I was wondering if we could see some of _your_ childhood photos as well. Donald told us you left Scotland when you were still pretty young.”

            “Ay, I did. I emigrated to America when I was still a lad. I wanted to find my wealth, and I couldn’t do so in Scotland.”

            “Did your family come too?”

            “No. I… had to leave them behind. Couldn’t bring them with me, you see. Hortense was still a babe after all.” Scrooge stood up suddenly, “Let me… let me grab the right photo album.”

            He left the couch and returned with an older, dustier album with a crest blind-stamped on the cover. Inside were sepia-toned photographs of bygone days. Scrooge pointed to the people within and identified them. “There’s mummy and daddy, Downy and Fergus were their names. My older sister, Matilda. Me, of course. There’s bonny little Hortense, Donald’s mother. She was the youngest.”

            A red-haired toddler peered out at them; she was sitting on her father’s lap and sucking her thumb, looking startingly like Donald had as a child.

            “There aren’t too many photos of my childhood. Photographs were more expensive those days, and my family was quite poor…”

            José noticed something odd and pointed towards it. “What is that? That lumpy looking thing on a string your holding.”

            “Oh well. It was such a long time ago, who can remember?”

            Scrooge moved to turn the page, but Donald stayed his hand. “Grandma Downy told me about that. Um, oh yeah! Scrooge wanted a dog, but they couldn’t afford one, so they all pitched in to buy the leftover trimmings from the local barber. He name it, like, Hairy, I think.”

            “Whiskers.”

            “What?”

            “Whiskers,” Scrooge repeated emphatically, “I named him Whiskers.” Scrooge cleared his throat. Was he getting emotional? Over a clump of discarded hair? Scrooge turned the page, unhindered this time, while José tried to contemplate loving a clump of hair enough to tear up over its memory.

            They must’ve been seriously poor, more so than José had been growing up. Did Donald tell him that? Or did he just forget? Maybe that explained the weird inconsistences between the man’s considerable wealth and his actual lifestyle. José knew all too well that the worry about having enough never really left you, not when you grew up having to go without.

            Scrooge flipped through telling them about life in America, how he had made his fortune, how he grew up in a foreign land without his family, sending back whatever he could, whenever he could. Eventually, Hortense and Matilda had joined him in his new home. Scrooge flipped to a photo of Hortense and her husband, Quackmore, on their wedding day. They were young and in love, smiling broadly. Donald looked at them sadly while Scrooge said nothing. A weighty, solemn silence passed in lieu of a comment. Another uncomfortable realization dawned on José for the second time that night.

            He didn’t know what happened to Donald’s parents, only that they must have passed away when he was very young. Did Donald miss them? Did he get to know them at all? How did he come to live with his uncle anyway? He was dumbfounded over the fact they had never talked about any of this; it was such a big part of who Donald was, and yet, he knew nothing about it.

            A chime sounded from the nearby grandfather clock, informing them of the late hour. They had passed the evening away chattering and laughing while Scrooge and Donald reminisced.

            Scrooge closed the album and place it on the coffee table in front of them. “I think its time to call it a night.”

            As if on cue, Donald let loose a yawn that he failed to cover in time.

            “See? We’ve tuckered Wee Donnie out. He was always such a sleepy lad growing up. I suppose some things never change.”

            With some effort, Scrooge stood up, bringing Donald with him. They four of them exchanged and well wishes for undisturbed sleep before parting towards their respective wings. As José kissed Panchito goodnight and retreated to his room for his evening ablutions, he wondered about all the things he’d learned about Donald today, and all the things he had still yet to learn. Worries plagued his mind as he slid in to bed. Not too long ago he had chided Donald for not opening up. What he had assumed at the time to be stubbornness to remain taciturn, he realized, might have been something else completely. Staring up at the ceiling, he stewed over what to do while sleep evaded him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmmmm, what to say about this chapter? Too many things honestly. I'm starting to wonder how long this series will run, since it took me 6.5k words and three chapters to cover the events of just the first day (and technically the day isn't even over yet. The next chapter will cover some nighttime shenanigans.) Guess I'll play it by ear.  
> As always, leave me comments so I can grow up big and strong.


	7. A Little Midnight Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one ever said José made good decisions. Things get a little spicy here. We're earning that T for Teens rating, folks.

After the day’s events, Donald had collapsed into bed almost immediately. Walking arm in arm, Scrooge and Donald had meandered down the hallway, enjoying each other’s company now that their guests had retired to their bedrooms. Donald loved spending time with Panchito and José, naturally, but he had missed his uncle, and he had used his spring break to visit home for a reason. More so, he knew Scrooge wanted to check in with him and see how he was doing, and, for once, Donald couldn’t blame him. Not after his previous year away from home. He didn’t want to worry his uncle, but he didn’t want to hide anything from him either, nor could he do so successfully, so Donald was honest with him. Life had been its usual series of up’s and down’s; mostly good overall, but he had his down days. Nothing like the depths he’d plumbed before, thank god, but still trying. Therapy and anti-depressants kept him from tipping over into something unmanageable, but he wasn’t quite sure he was what you’d call ‘recovered.’ His therapist warned him against using words that implied a sort of end state, there was no curing mental illness, only learning to live with it. And that didn’t always imply a consistent forward progression either. But at some point, one had to reach a point of being _better,_ right? He felt guilty saying he was unhappy still, afraid that it reflected poorly on José and Panchito in some way. He was happy with _them_ , with their _relationship_ , but he still wasn’t happy with _himself_. Yet, he’d be lying if he said his new relationship hadn’t put some stress on him.

Scrooge listened patiently, with his usual composed nature, but attentively while Donald spoke. When he finished, Scrooge thanked him for talking to him, told him he loved him, and hugged him. Afterwards, Donald got ready for bed, and Scrooge returned to tuck him in. It wasn’t the prolonged, intricate routine of his childhood, gone were the days of bedtime stories and fetching glasses of water and stuffed animals, but there was something reassuring about the way Scrooge would always come to kiss his forehead and wish him goodnight one final time whenever he came home. It made him feel loved, and knowing that there was someone who cared for him, who wanted to keep him safe and secure, put him at ease.

Alone now in his room, he lay under the covers in the dark, tracing the cracks in the ceiling with his eyes like he’d done so many times before. He let his mind wander, playing whatever idle fantasy helped him fall asleep the fastest. Soon he began to drift off…

…A soft, persistent _psst_ together with some gentle nudges roused him from his slumber. Opening his eyes, Donald saw José’s figure sitting on his bed in the dark. It took a moment for Donald to snap to attention, but when he realized another person was in his room, he promptly, and as covertly as he could, shoved his stuffed animal far under his covers to hide it from view.

“What are you doing, Zé?”

José shrugged noncommittally. “I couldn’t sleep. Too keyed up, you know?”

“So?”

“So,” José chuckled, “You’re funny. So, I thought ‘what’s the best way to blow off some steam at night?’”

            Immediately, Donald thought how lucky he was that José couldn’t see his face color in the dark. “We can’t. Seriously, my uncle will be on us like white on rice.”

            “Psh, how is he going to hear us in a big, old house like this?” José scooted closer, moving over to straddle Donald. “Don’t be a scaredy-cat. Anyways, won’t it be nice for this bed to finally see some action?”

            “This bed has seen plenty of action!” He couldn’t help but raise his voice slightly in protest.

            José shushed him. “Have I ever told you that you’re an unconvincing liar? It almost astounding how bad you are at it.”

            Donald pulled a face but knew when to cut his losses. Sometimes José knew how to read him too well, he thought. He placed his hands on José’s hips and hooked his thumbs under the waistband of José’s pajama bottoms.

            “Well,” Donald whispered, “Maybe we can fool around a _little_ bit. I wasn’t kidding about being quiet though.”

            Donald felt José’s hands wind up the edge of his shirt and his hips grind against his own. His eyes begun to flutter closed when the door to his room slammed open with a violent thud. The two of them froze like deer in headlights, precisely the wrong thing to do when caught in a scandalous position. Scrooge stomped into the room looking murderous and hooked his cane under the cuff of José’s night-shirt before the two of them could even squeak out a banal _it's not what it looks like._ Scrooge hauled José off of Donald, onto the floor, and across the floor with unbelievable speed. As Scrooge dragged him out the door, José could only register the following thought: Scrooge was surprisingly strong for a guy his age; José was almost impressed if he weren’t so scared for his life. A shocked José disappeared from Donald’s view and down the hall. Before he could even sink down under the covers in mortification, however, Scrooge had backtracked to his doorway.

            “Goodnight, my sweet, little cutie-patoot. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.” Scrooge cooed at him with an adoring smile. He shut the door to Donald’s bedroom softly, and Donald could hear the sound of Scrooge dragging José down the hallway as he sunk into his mattress.

            Well. _That_ was exactly the brand of utter humiliation he had expected from this trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C'mon, you didn't really think I'd let Donald off that easy, did you? I feel like all my chapters wildly oscillate from heartfelt emotional drama to utter slapstick. I guess I just don't like things getting too sad, you know? I hope it doesn't give my readers whiplash...  
> Also, liar liar pants on fire, Donald. That bed ain't seen any action. You know the rule: no hanky-panky in Unca Scrooge's house.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, you want to know what baby picture Donald is talking about?  
> https://galoots.tumblr.com/post/183435777796/bitsofboots-scrooge-probably-has-it-blown-up-to  
> There ya go.


End file.
